Sports icons are evolving to better accommodate 21st Century residents
When the Confederate battle flags became unacceptable as a source of self-identity for Carolinians something was bound to replace them.
Hi readers. Hydrox and Ms. Shiva did Snoopy dances last night when Jeanne arrived back here. She’d been the past couple of weeks climbing wet mountains and doing other things people do out there under the Japanese nuclear threat. Although she didn’t say so to the cats, her arrival was timed in such a way as to suggest she came back fleeing the Japanese invasion of Hawaii.
It’s long been known, both by Japanese military planners and by US historians that WWII would have gone a lot differently if Japan had followed up the Pearl Harbor attack with an invasion of the island. The recent reinterpretation of the post-WWII Japanese constitution allowing renewed military adventures by Japan requires absorbing lessons learned from WWII so they don’t make the same mistakes again. Practice landings on Hawaii, and possibly later on areas of the US west coast not yet too heavily contaminated by radiation from Japanese nuclear plants will help assure that next time things will be different.
Anyway, Jeanne didn’t say anything about all this. Her climbing of Mount Whatchallit, Ranier? etc etc etc went as well as could be expected. She took plus/minus 2500 photographs, stayed various places, and despite the radiation, wasn’t all that anxious to return.
Today’s a new beginning returning to working two, count’em, two, jobs again. Which evidently still weighs in better than radiation poisoning as a way to count off the days she has left in life.
The cats and I were glad to see her back, everything else being equal.
Hi readers. If that death penalty fiasco in Arizona didn’t teach anything else worth knowing, it taught that. If Arizona State Department of Corrections took over the animal killing from the Humane Society the animals would all be dying of old age, getting healthier while everyone waited with bated breath for the final solution.
Thank goodness it was a human being they did that to instead of a cat.
Hi readers. Mr. Hydrox explained something for me I’d been wondering about a longish while.
Hydrox: Meeeeeoooooww. Meeeeeoooooww. Meeeeeoooooww.
Me: Jeeze Hydrox. Ain’t it a bit late for this crap? Something bothering you?
Hydrox: No. I just got to thinking about things. Missing Niaid. All those Y2K chickens and that cabin. Mehitabel. Tabby and that mountain place we used to live. All I’ve got now is this other cat here, Shiva. You. And that woman who lives here with Shiva.
Me: Well you do have that. You’ve got to live for the moment.
Hydrox: I’m not asking for any of that cheap tripe philosopy. You asked why I was weeping aloud and I told you.
Me: I’m glad you did, amigo. I was afraid you were getting sick again.
Hydrox: So where’s that woman who lives here? I haven’t seen her for a couple of days?
Me: She’s off somewhere else, Hydrox. It’s just you, Shiva and me for the next couple of weeks.
Hydrox: So I can meoooow as much as I want and nobody’s going to be kept awake?
Me: I’ll sleep right through it. You know that. And who cares what Shiva thinks? She used to be a good cow cat, earned her keep. Nowadays she’s worthless. I don’t know why Jeanne keeps her around.
Hydrox: Yeah, but I’m glad she’s here anyway. This place almost echoes. I’d go crazy if there weren’t at least one more cat around.
Me: You’ve got it then, amigo. I’ll keep feeding her so long as the food holds out. Maybe Jeanne will pick up some more when she gets back.
Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read.
Those of you who’ve read here a while probably remember when I did my dramatic exit scene from Texas. Middle of the damned coldest winter in memory, hopped in that RV trying to beat death to Kansas. Two cats freezing and scared, me pushing things to a razor edge because I was determined to die somewhere the felines would have a home when I kicked.
Made it as far as one of those north Texas towns above Dallas, checked into a motel to croak. And Jeanne’s sons dropped what they were doing and came down to drive me the rest of the way.
I had every reason to believe one of a couple of unhappy body parts was going on strike and planned to kill me. The VA in Texas tried hard to avoid giving me the bad news by not examining me, but I sneaked past them into a private emergency room. Old Gale hauled me to town when I was in bad enough shape to agree to it. Took care of the cats while the Kerrville hospital made faces at one another every time they got the results of another test.
So I had every reason to believe my goozle was an ugly cancerous disaster, funny como se llamas on my lungs, but that those couldn’t get to me fast enough to kill me. My ticker was going to do that honor.
So when I arrived in Oz and checked into the Olathe Medical Center through the Emergency Room I figured there was a middling chance I wouldn’t be coming back out with the amount of alive I had when I checked in.
But the cats were taken care of. Every time a sawbones wanted to look at something else going ugly or stinking on my old jalopy of a body, I said okay. And afterward he, or she would come around looking somber, suggesting we have a better look and by the way, I hate to tell you this, etc.
But I’ve digressed. My point I want to make to you is that nobody anywhere along the program was saying, “On the off chance you don’t croak this is going to cost one hell of a lot of money. Let’s discuss whether you could pay it in your wildest, most optimistic dreams.”
Hell, I’m a Social Security pensioneer. Whatever medical care I get is through the VA, or Medicare paying the bills that have any reasonable hope of getting paid. There’s copays, and I had a vague awareness of the fact it exists, but hell, I was having conversations with the grim reaper. I wasn’t worrying about bill collectors.
And seemingly neither was anyone else. Sons of bitches thought I as dying, every swinging Richard of them. Maybe if they thought there was any hope I wouldn’t someone would have sat down with me and said, “Uh, you know, if you die you’re going to be okay. But if you don’t, we’ve got people over in accounting who are going to try to make the REST of your life challenging. Maybe you thought you had it bad before you came in here, but dying’s just a way to escape the accounts receivable people down the hall. People do it all the time.”
Okay. This defibrillator and the VA paying for physical therapy did a lot, and I believe, my home remedy herbal cancer killer took care of the goozle and lungs. For a while it still appeared the damned ticker could still croak me, but it gradually slid down on the job. Every physical therapy session I came away feeling better physically, and suspecting the financial world had some dark clouds looming on the horizon. Lucky the national debt already admitted nobody gives a damn about paying debts anyway.
Well friends and neighbors, barring any unforeskinned circumcisions I won’t be seeing anymore doctors for a year. They’ve got this ticker surveillance device hooked to me, reports to them all the time, and I’m down there three times a week on walking machines and sitting down peddler things, putting all this crap behind me.
And the bean counters are scratching their heads, dunning me and fretting over the phone about how I’m going to pay those copays that didn’t make any difference so long as I was exiting the vehicle. Every month they get their $10 checks, and the big ones rack up a charge to neutralize that in the form of a penalty because it wasn’t enough.
And threatening to turn it over to the Roccos.
Sheeze! I was needing a new adventure. Aside from some help from a few good friends, I haven’t had any personal debt since Y2K. If I didn’t have money I didn’t spend it, no matter what. Sometimes they turned off the electricity, and it stayed turned off until I got enough money to turn it back on.
I suppose this could be called the cost of living. I can send them $10 per month, they can call that $10 and raise, until nature can find some other way of wiping me off the Monopoly board.
But damn it’s good being alive.
He’s too old to cut the mustard anymore.
Hi readers. Thanks for the visit.
Jeanne’s next door neighbor saw us on the back porch the other day: “Hi. Is that big, fluffy-looking black and white cat yours?”
Me: “He came with me from Texas.” No point giving my cat-ownership philosophy dissertation.
Neighbor grinning: “We watch television late at night with the front door open. He comes by every night and sticks his head inside, looks at us a moment, then leaves. It’s eery when he meets your eye.”
Hydrox is evidently as determined to milk as much living out of this life as I am. Even if it means spying on the neighbors. They’re older than him, but barely.
Hi readers. Thanks for coming by. Jeanne’s about to zoom away on her morning bicycle ride, trying to find something long sleeved to block something just this side of the morning chill. She says she had a lousy dream last night, dreamed Leonard Cohen died. Bummer.
I recall dreaming Al Jolson died sometime a few years ago, but the fact he’d been dead several decades already took the edge off it. Not a good dream, but better than when he actually did it. I was in grammar school at the time and it’s the first time someone I really liked died, I think. He had just come back from a USO tour visiting troops in Korea and went kerplunk. Lousier than dreaming about it.
Anyway, in spite of myself I’ve been allowing my mind to wander into Jeanne’s Library job postcard art project. http://librarymailart.wordpress.com/
Trying to think of something that could be forced down the throat of the post office as a post card and sent over there to be forced down their thoats disguised as art. I’m considering gluing a 78 rpm record to a 33 rpm LP, a 45 rpm single, and a CD and putting address and stamps on the whole shebang. Might do it yet if I can find the 78 and 33.
But I wanted to sneak around and tell you about cats, mostly. That cat documentary at the top got me thinking about Hydrox and might have given me a dream about Niaid last night, or maybe she was just saying hi. A lot better than dreaming about Al Jolson or Leonard Cohen.
Hydrox, by the way, is hanging in there, and I’m including him in my gratitude affirmations numerous times every day. Been spending portions of almost every night outdoors doing what cats do.
And I’m about to toodle off to physical therapy to do what old human guys do when they’re hanging in there day to day, including themselves in their own gratitude affirmations numerous times every day.